


Of The Night That Wasn't Supposed To Come

by blae_kitta



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I did this instead of sleeping, Kissing, Like a very small amount of angst ok, M/M, Public transport don't you love it, as I always do with writing things, bus rides, finally accepting offers, great views and a romanticization of London???, implied sex, right after they get on the bus at the last episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22461703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blae_kitta/pseuds/blae_kitta
Summary: Of what happened on the night of the supposed Armeggadon; from the bus stop after the stopping of the end of the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	Of The Night That Wasn't Supposed To Come

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when the show first came out. It's been sitting, completed and not edited, in my notes for about six ish months, so I finally decided to edit and post it. For some reason I decided to add a very small amount of angst in there, which I'm not sure I agree with now, but anyways, hope you enjoy!

It was at a bus stop at the end of the end of the world that an offer that stood for hundreds of years was accepted. An empty wine bottle, the previous contents well enjoyed by an angel and demon, was clutched in the angel's hands as bus' lights swept across the pavement in front of them, coming to a stop. The both of them, leaning upon each other, shakily ascended into the night bus. It was, as all buses are, sparsely but generally warmly lit. This revealed to them that they had it completely to themselves, and they tottered the rest of the way in, to plunk themselves down two-thirds of the way into the bus. They sat, shoulder to shoulder with their sides pressed against each other, their camaraderie in silence, exhaustion and the nice fuzzy feeling of alcohol circulating through ones system.

The bus jerked forward into it's steady rolling motion, and Aziraphale's hand brushed Crowley's, purely accidental. As the bus continued moving, it brushed it again, perhaps a bit less accidental. Then, a third time; but this time entirely without accident and unprompted by the movement of the bus, the angel fully settled his hand on top of the demons. And then, further emboldened by exhausted and the aforementioned alcohol, he shifted his grip so that he was, unquestionably, holding hands gently with the demon. It was a soft unspoken question, a query to Crowley, the grip loose enough for him to easily remove his hand from the other hands embrace. But his response was not to pull away; rather, it was answered in a cautiously slow squeeze of both their hands between them, and his own shifting of their hands, slipping his fingers between the others, entwining them. Each smiled bashfully, heart quickening at their risque, each pointedly stared away from each other, only to steal quick sideward glances. The blood rising to their cheeks hidden from the other beneath the dirt from the day and the dim lighting. 

The bus stopped rarely, for it was late and many people had preferred to remain at home on the strange night of what was to have been the Armageddon, and so they made good time, the bus rolling quickly through the (mostly) vacant stops. A small miracle, just perhaps, may have also assisted with cutting down the amount of time they were on the bus.

As the bus rode on, the rocking movement began to lull Crowley to sleep, the exhaustion of the stressful day wearing at him. His head began to droop forward, his eyes fluttering shut and his glasses slipping down his nose precariously. His hand loosened in the angel's, and Aziraphale, noticing, gently moved Crowley's head upon his shoulder, and removed his glasses with his free hand, to fold them up and tuck them safely away into his breast pocket. 

And so they arrived in London, the angel and demon that stopped Armeggadon (or more accurately, was privy to it's end), were holding hands. Crowley slept soundly upon the Aziraphale's shoulder, but the angel himself could not fall asleep, even in his own exhaustion. So he gazed out the darkened window into the wavering reflections of them both, lost in thought. He paid no heed to their silhouettes, not even registering them as for what they were, his thoughts so turned inward, contemplating the length of both of their history and of the offers and choices that it had entailed, and the ending of the world. 

He only came out of his thoughts once, when Crowley, from exhaustion and neglect in sleep, began to show scales, which pressed against him, their sharp edges alerting him to his companions shift. He smiled slightly, a caring look upon his face as he looked down at the demon sleeping upon his shoulder. Rubbing his thumb gently along the demons knuckles, he slipped him a portion of his power, a reminder of peace and comfort; and the scales sunk away again.

He roused himself again as they arrived at the stop by Crowley's flat, waking the demon as well, and the pair of them stumbled out of the bus half awake and hand in hand. They both stood crookedly upon the street for a moment, gathering themselves; Crowley slipped his glasses back on, handed back to him by the angel, who in turn tossed the empty wine bottle into a nearby trashcan. 

They wandered onwards, both drawing in the crisp air and feeling it's frigidity within their lungs and throat. Their drowsiness withdrew from the cold, Aziraphale's drowsy musings becoming sharper and focused, and Crowley's meandering walk more efficient. Both now were almost entirely awake as they walked onwards, but they remained silent, their usual chattering banter absent. This was so, as Aziraphale had remained absorbed within his reminiscing, and Crowley, recognizing the thoughtful look upon his friends face, remained silent himself, curious as to the direction of that contemplativeness; and his own mind then took to meandering over old memories. 

And so they arrived at the flat, finally stopping in uncertainty between Crowley's lush plants in the hall, both quiet and tired and full of reminisced memories. They had reached their goal for the evening. Nothing they had planned for was past this. They each stared out through the window on the one side of the hall, between the plants, at the vastness of London below them, their thoughts indecisive.

The window truly had a splendid view of the city, being up so high. During the day it was a sprawling mass of grey buildings and streets, the streets crawling with hurrying citizens dressed in all manner of clothing, all with places to go. The street became colourful with rainjackets and umbrellas once it began to rain, the bright colours of which Crowley had always enjoyed; it also had a view upon the Thames, a grey-brown curved line cutting through the mess of buildings. The only similarity of disruption of the buildings was the train lines, the tracks of which abruptly began and ended, briefly appearing before vanishing once more into the underground.

But in the dark of night, it was all transformed, a dark veiled mass of grey buildings sunken deeper in colour, adorned by bright golden-orange lights, the streets clear lines of a thick vibrant yellow, as if London was a broken bowl threaded together by gold. The Thames shimmered, sliding and distorting the lights and colours, deep yellow brush strokes onto a black canvas, and other jewels shined within the vastness, some carrying deep greens, ruby reds and cold pure whites. The quiescent swirl and movement from these bright colours of the myriad of lights, streets and buildings, made the view resplendent, a painting reminiscent of van Gogh.

But up above, the light trickled into the apartment, a weakened yellow-orange escapee of the slur of colour below, to illuminate the leaves weakly, their brightened edges fading into shadows.

"So..." drawled Crowley, into the emptiness, hoping, daring to hope, and so breaking the silence. He looked at the angel, wishing, pleading, prompting him to suggest what to do next. 

Aziraphale remained quiet, thinking back on all the things that he had mulled over upon the bus. He turned from the window, to steadily look into the other's eyes; or rather, the sunglasses.

He sighed, a flicker of annoyance, of which behind there was a deep wistfulness and yearning, an emotion created by thousands of years of hesitation and denial. It was this expression, that caused the rest of Crowley's sentence that he had prepared as 'Plan B' to die in his throat.

A decisive expression then settled into the angel's face, a look though that was soft around the edges, belying the same wistfulness and yearning of the expression before; and with it, he leant forward, and lifted the glasses off the demons face tenderly, his face softening at the action, and folded them for the second time that night. 

"You know," he softly whispered, smiling gently, tucking away the glasses into Crowley's breast pocket, their eyes finally truly free to meet, "I always found your eyes beautiful."

Crowley inhaled sharply, unaware of his absence of breath as Aziraphale had leant in. But his lungs worked for him once again, drawing in the air that he did not necessarily need, while heart stuttered within his chest, probably missing a few too many beats. He wondered briefly if this was what a heart palpitation would feel like.

He was for once unsure what to say, what to respond to the comment, even an esquisitely dumb response; but in the brief silence, one that felt as long as the thousands of years he had lived, Aziraphale flicked his eyes down, sighing and breaking the silence. His face became weary; and it was a weariness that was from years of a choice, a question, a query and a desire fought and shied away from. A heart saddened by the potential of happiness that was lost and wasted away in time, and a face fatigued of hesitation.

Aziraphale then looked back up, and broke the silence properly.

"I'm sorry I took this long." 

He leant in, his hand coming up to cup the back of Crowley's head, pulling him further down and within reach, to kiss the demon for the first time. It was a soft and sweet kiss, his eyes fluttering shut, a kiss full of joy and promise with only a trace of bittersweet sorrow. 

Crowley froze. Even after all his years of yearning, he had never really expected this moment to come, but swiftly, realization kicked in, and he softened, kissing the angel back. And as they kissed, the sorrow and bitterness over the missed opportunities melted away between them, and all that remained was joy and promise.

"What took you so long?" Crowley laughed out, when they stopped to catch their breaths; they stood, hand in hand, their foreheads touching, gazing at each other. A kernel of truth, of what would have usually been bitterness was in it, but Aziraphale laughed loudly at this, unaffected. There was only positivity between them.

"Yes, six thousand years is a bit much, isn't it?" 

Crowley began to laugh harder at this, body buckling under the laughter, and Aziraphale joined, laughing loudly and almost hysterically, the laughter one of the only outlets for the amazement and bursting joy they both felt within. And so, they held both of each other's hands there, in the middle of the room, both beginning to cry-laugh, the tears soon streaking down their cheeks as they shook with their guffaws, awe and joy. 

The only ones to witness this outpouring of love, a confession at the end of the end of the world, was the lush greenery of the plants that surrounded them in the room, lit up by the many lights. They, watching this spectacle, wondered at the softness of their tyrant, each deeply wishing for that this new fellow would be able to mellow their stringent overlord.

"I think I would have made a terrible human", Aziraphale mused, after both of them recovered from wheezing from laughter, now both sprawled upon the floor and each other.

"Yes, you would have died quite unsatisfied in love I'm afraid," Crowley quipped back, grinning.

"Although, I wouldn't have you any other way then yourself, whatever you may be," he blurted out, suddenly becoming earnest, a blush creeping on his cheeks that was not just from short breath.

Aziraphales laughed again, smiling, pleased and flattered. He leant forward once more, to kiss Crowley for the second time. And Crowley met him half-way, both their hands cascading through each other's hair. Crowley softly stroked Aziraphale's jaw with his thumb as they kissed; it was languid and long, both their original burst of shocked emotion settling into a great outpouring of love, tender and passionate but with the patience of thousands of years of waiting, and each and every drop of it they savoured; and so they went slowly, everything done with an all encompassing, unconditional and ineffable love. 

It was again only for breath that they stopped; even if they're limbs had long gone numb, molded into uncomfortable shapes against the flagstones.

"There ought to be a comfier place in the flat of yours," Aziraphales queried, breathless, eyebrow raised. 

"Well, if you are asking," Crowley grinned back cheekily, scrambling haphazardly onto his feet with a flourish, "I do happen to have a place."

"Just follow me," he said, pulling Aziraphale to his feet; and they both tottered the way to the bedroom, their legs asleep and tingly with pain. 

And so the night went on, London unaware as it always was of the finer workings of itself, as an angel bedded a demon, and the night that wasn't supposed to come came, the Armeggadon thwarted away. The streetlamps in their bright incandescent orange, lined up and down the streets, remained that bright incandescent orange, and the late night trains came and went as they always did. All was the same; people drank too much and threw up into the gutters, and others soundly slept within their soft beds, and others chased love. London was as it always was, a city constantly changing, growing and molding itself to something new. A city large and diverse enough that it held some bizarre oddities, and perhaps even minor miracles, such as the love between a demon and angel.


End file.
